He sits in front of the mirror, just like he has hundreds of times, perhaps thousands. He, with great ritual, hides his face with an applicator sponge, just like in those hundreds of times, perhaps thousands. With great solemn ceremony in those hundreds of times, perhaps thousands, he applies a mask of pancake and bakes it under the hot lights that surround a guilded mirror and look deeply into a face that looks right back out at him. And then, a hundred times, perhaps thousands, he will make his entrance. "All the worlds a stage, and all men and women merely players. They have their entrances and exits..." Today, however, the face in the mirror, something wrong, out of place. "Is this a dagger I see before me?" He thinks into a heavy sigh. "And each man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages..."
He sees wrinkles under his eyes, dark bags, crevices and crags among the face. Instead of water and wind, age has created this facade on the rock, the old king, the specialty of this evening. A sad royal, a desperate ruler, trying so hard to beat the rush of time, the ravisher of mind and kingdom. An old man, nay, fool, who wants so much to hear words long turned to dust, empty ghosts floating about his court. "I love you, Daddy," say three little girls, now powerful, lusting women, nay, harpies. Alas, all that is left is a divided kingdom. Nothing corporeal for the weary king to carry into oblivion.
A knock on the door beats, "Forty-five minutes."
Yes, the bright lights fade, make pale and flat a face undone, so makeup it is. But makeup does not cover eyes, so at least, there is something to take into the abyss, old King, and yet, somewhere deep in those tired eyes, looking out from the reflection in that bright mirror, sits a boy, instead of three young girls.
"Who looks back at me? I am the boy, I recognize the blanket on which I sit. I recognize the trees and open space; it's a faded picture from a photo book, my long-lost baby book. And on the other part of that blanket, I recognize a hairdo and picnic basket. A tiny baby, horned-rimmed glasses. There is a blouse and skirt, a middle class attempt to appear as a woman who later became Jackie O. A conservative approach to a time turning psychedelic, except for the Beetle Bug, the car with no heat. I am that boy, but I was always "willing to school," and always afraid to "sigh like furnace," always running from Cupid's arrow. So, alas no heirs in this kingdom. But there is Mark Twain, Sherlock Holmes, someone named Pooh, a wind in the willows, and a whole cavalcade of Gods who labored over Greece who would visit my bed at night. There would be my confidant, my safe boundaries holding a book over my prone body, me devouring, savoring every word , sharing my very spirit. The empty space between us always filled with love, understanding, and silence, stillness. Alas, no longer. And no little one in a bed for me to share those words, those books. I..."
He settles into a sigh of ennui, and a tear pops out of the corner of his eye, like a rodent seeking safety. It runs down his cheeks.
"Yee-aaw! Save it for the storm, save it for Act IV, save it for the audience...." Another tear. "Stop it! Too soon!"
He goes back to the bright mirror, hiding his face by applying the character. He blinks and is now in robe and nightcap, Moliere, rather an attempt. He can not remember the words, no matter how hard.
"The script never sank in, did it? Work, torment, angry words from fellow actors. No one knew about how the words crawled all over the page; I stayed silent in embarrassment and shame. Some one else should have pretended to be ill, a specific Junior, the rightful heir to the audition, should have been the hypochondriac. But I was the Senior...and I sucked...what if I can't-- Stop it! No time! Too late! Just shut up and do it. Take the leap, God damn it. Step off the top of the pole and go for the bell. Fuck!"
"Thirty minutes."
"Where's the old man? Shit! I lost him. No! I must. Back to makeup, finish the highlights and shadows. Don't forget to line the eyes. Ah, there you are. Good! Still there, eh, Monarch. At least your face is ready, you ol' cartoon buffoon. I only hope I can fill you with real emotions...and remember your words. Not Moliere, please, no Moliere. I never did attempt Moliere after that, did I? Not once. Not even after my first professional stage experience. Christmas with Vic and Sade. That was when my director pointed me in a direction that hinted my reading problems were not connected to my intelligence. I never thanked him for that. Paul Bragosian, something like that. Thank you, sir. He went back to Philadelphia if I remember. Small part in "12 Monkeys," then disappeared from my life all together. Fuck! Costume! Where is it?! Okay, there it is. Breathe. The layers are here. The weight and scratch ones are here...the colors."
In a breath, he goes back to the mirror; he preens, picking the last bits of non-character, everyday habits. He sweeps off his shoulders and chest the gremlins of doubt. He is pleased as the crumpled monarch gazes back at him. The smile appropriately tired and grizzled.
He steps into the hallway and heads toward his court awaiting him in his throne room. As he finds the edge of the stage, the actor hides in the thick, dust-filled curtains. The lights have not gone to black, there are several stagehands working, solving, and preparing. He sees several audience members milling about the house. The curtains smell of old makeup and past performances. His stomach moves and gurgles. Movement helps; so, the actor paces. His gentle footfalls quietly tick like an old grandfather clock. Time, click, passing, clock. Father in a bed with rails, 62 years of age, not quite 63. Click. "What do have I to show with my life?" Clock. "You're meant for this role," director with a smile. Click. "Who am I?" Clock. A single, external voice: "you were chosen, and you also chose."
"Places!" Whispers a cuckoo from a different clock. So, silently, the actor floats on to the now darkened stage and takes his place. He exhales slowly, meditates.
After, he will leave the redarkened stage and float into a dark makeup room. With a sigh, he will exhale, leaving his body. "Yes, I chose." In the warm glow of candlelight applause and laughter remembered, the actor will then close his eyes.
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